


Prove Me Wrong

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: Competition, F/M, First Date, Romance, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's competitive. She might not call it that, but she is. Has to compete with him at absolutely everything. Sometimes she wins. Sometimes he does. Maybe it's time they both did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Circumstantial evidence

She’s competitive.  She might not call it that, but she is.  Has to compete with him at absolutely everything.  Fitness. Detecting.  Vocabulary (that’s hot).  Shooting (so’s that).  Poker.  How many times they’ve saved each other’s life.  Sometimes she wins.  Sometimes he does.  To him, it’s just a game, though he’s not exactly uncompetitive himself.  To her, he thinks, it’s the bedrock of her being.

He couldn’t honestly say that competing with her isn’t a great deal of fun, and he certainly likes it when he wins.  But for a little while now, he’s been thinking that it would be a lot more fun if they started playing a game that they could _both_ win, simultaneously.  All the time. 

The summer had been surprisingly, disconcertingly, lonely: he’d missed both the bullpen and Beckett.  Sometime when he hadn’t been looking they’d both sneaked up on him, inserted themselves into his life and become fundamental to his happiness.  And (not that she would _ever_ admit it because she is so damn competitive) because she’d let him win the investigation challenge on which his return depended, he thinks – he’s sure – that deep down she might just feel the same.  So now he’s going to try to entice her into a new challenge, one that could last for a long time.  A lifetime.

And he thinks he knows exactly how to achieve it.

He wanders into the bullpen bearing coffee, bear claw and an infuriatingly insolent smile the very next day.  Beckett, who he knows to be scrabbling around for any information she can glean before prints and phone data are achieved – currently expected in no less than three days’ time since the lab is, as ever, overloaded – is not in a good mood.  He knows this, too.  And he _also_ knows, and intends to use for his own nefarious ends, that when she’s in an irritable state it is not difficult _at all_ to bait her into accepting a challenge.

Or in this case, the first of a series of challenges.

A little later in the day, he begins.  No point risking his life or ears by trying this before Beckett has a blood-coffee level of a sufficient ratio to bring her to humanity instead of early-Star Trek Klingon.

“I reckon I know a better place to get a meal than the food truck or Remy’s,” Castle smirks annoyingly, best know-it-all smartass expression pasted on.  “I bet I can guess your favourite food, too.”

Beckett looks up, familiarly irritated.

“You think?” she snaps.  “I don’t.”

“So prove me wrong.  I’ll select a meal and if I’m wrong I’ll” –

“You’ll keep your mouth shut for a week except when I say you can open it.”

“A week?  No no no.  Totally disproportionate.  An hour.”

“Four days.”

“One.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“Done.”  Beckett smiles sharply.  “So where’s this place with my favourite foods, then?”

Castle smiles back with immensely smug satisfaction and watches horror dawn on Beckett’s face with even more smugness.  “That, my dear Detective Beckett, would be where we’re going for dinner tonight.”  He smirks evilly as her mouth drops open.  “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.  Bet you’ll be under-dressed, too.”

“I will not be,” Beckett hisses.

“Prove me wrong.” 

He saunters off to the pleasing sound of Beckett imploding in a toxic cloud of black smoke and vile imprecations all directed at his impervious – and smug – back.  He only just doesn’t add a happy skip to the saunter.  That wouldn’t be smooth, suave or sophisticated.  Instead, he controls himself all the way down in the elevator and then can’t resist a little skip, to the amusement of the desk sergeant, as he exits the Twelfth.  Beckett can’t see it, so he’s quite safe.

Step One and Step Two, accomplished.  He’s going on a _date_ with Beckett (not that she knows it) _and_ she’ll dress up.  He bounces home, thoroughly pleased with himself, and occupies the intervening time in constructing the outline of half a chapter of Nikki Three and achieving a new high score on Angry Birds, in not at all equal quantities.

He showers, shaves carefully (he’s long past the scruffy stubbled look, which anyway didn’t really work for Beckett), applies a touch of an aftershave that he’s sure she likes, and dresses in perfectly pressed navy dress pants, a toning blue shirt which he knows emphasises his eyes (at least, even his mother says he looks good in it, so it must be true) and a well cut navy jacket.  He smiles happily at his reflection in the mirror and waits until he can legitimately pick up Beckett without being embarrassingly early.  He is _very_ anxious to see what she is wearing.

Beckett had gone home on a riptide of furious irritation that she had been suckered into going out for dinner with Castle _and_ that she can’t wear scruffy, ripped jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt just to prove it doesn’t mean a thing.  However much she knows that he’s playing her, she is certainly not letting him claim victory unopposed.  So she picks out an ostensibly demure dress in a deep shade of crimson, showers and makes up carefully, and then adds a splash of perfume.  She tells herself that the last action is to block the insidious aroma of Castle’s aftershave and doesn’t admit that she both likes his aftershave and knows perfectly well that he likes this perfume.

Nor does she admit that she is looking forward to a dinner with Castle that isn’t a quick burger during or after a case.  Instead, she clings to her irritation that he suckered her.

Castle is perfectly on time.  He raps confidently on Beckett’s door, prepared for almost anything. (And hoping for short or tight or both.  Or nothing at all, of course, though that seems vanishingly unlikely.)  He’s a teensy bit disappointed at the apparent modesty of the dress.  Still, she’s dressed up.  Pretty colour, full skirt, demure neckline, heels.

“You look nice in a dress, Beckett, ” he says.  At least, that is what he’d intended to say.  He gets as far as _You look_ , while she’s turning away to collect a smallish evening purse and wrap, when he realises that the full skirt and demure neckline are disguising the fact that the whole dress is held together by one small tie at the side of her waist.  One small, _pullable_ tie.

Common sense and theatre costume craft tell him that there must be a second tie on the other side of her waist, on the inside.  The hammer blow of sheer lust thumping him on the head tells him to shut the door, ditch the dinner, forget the verbal challenges and take the physical challenge that dress offers.  Right here in her room on the couch.  Or the wall.  Or against the door…

“You look… stunning,” is what he _actually_ manages to emit, after a very mortifying pause.

“Proved you wrong,” Beckett snarks.

“And I’m very glad you did,” Castle oozes, recovering some game.  “That dress shows off your figure beautifully.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Castle.  It’s not like you’ll see it again.”

He quirks an eyebrow and lets that show all his disbelief.

“Let’s go, Beckett.  Out on our not-date.”

“It’s _not_ a date.”

“That’s what I said.  Unless you’d like to prove me wrong again?”

Beckett declines to pick up the dropped gauntlet.  Castle looks exceedingly good all spruced up.  It’s very distracting, but not so much so that she’s going to get suckered again.  She’s ahead on the scoreboard, and she intends to stay there.  She locks up and leads off to the elevator and out.

Surprisingly, there is no car outside.  A small tendril of suspicion curls into Beckett’s brain.  Her favourite restaurant is only a few blocks away.  But he couldn’t possibly know about it.  It’s ridiculously obscure.  She’d never told anyone but... _that traitor!  That sellout quisling traitorous disgrace to female solidarity!_   Lanie Parrish is a backstabbing double dealing four flushing son – daughter – of a bitch and when Beckett gets her hands on her she will wish that her morgue-ful of corpses were flesh-eating zombies ripping her limb from limb because that will be better than what Beckett will do to her.

A few far-too-short moments later she is absolutely positive that Lanie Parrish, ME, is a dead woman walking. 

Castle ignores the intermittent growls, as he has done for the last few moments.  The roiling aura of frustrated fury and realisation that he’s picked her pet restaurant – not at all accidentally – is very satisfying.  One to him.

“What did you bribe Lanie with?” Beckett enquires through tightly pursed lips.  Castle rapidly decides not to pretend innocence.  That purse is large enough – just – to hold a Glock.  Just because he can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.  Being shot would definitely spoil the evening, even if he is – mostly – sure she wouldn’t shoot to kill. Being maimed, mutilated, tortured or vivisected would spoil it just as badly.

“Two tickets to the New York City Ballet, centre front of the first ring.”  Beckett splutters and chokes.

“You’re _admitting_ it?  You bribed my _best friend_!”

“Well, saying I asked every restaurant within ten blocks of your apartment how often you went and how much you liked it would get me arrested as a stalker.”  He’d stopped himself doing any of that.  Just.

“I’ll arrest you for bribery instead,” Beckett grates.

“How?  It’s not bribery to give a ballet fan tickets.  Especially not if I were to go with her.”  Beckett chokes again.

“You?  Go to the ballet with Lanie?”  She looks utterly shocked.

“Why not?  I like ballet.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Prove me wrong, then.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Done.  I’ve got tickets for the premiere, too.  That’s next week, by the way.  And it’s black tie.  I hope you’ve got another dress.  You wouldn’t want to wear that one.  You’d definitely be underdressed.  That red one I got you would do.”

“What the _hell_?”

“We’re here, Beckett,” Castle says, before she can actually explode.  With some difficulty, he preserves a perfectly straight face while she mutters vitriolically under her breath.  Two to him.  Dates, that is.

He politely holds the restaurant door open for Beckett and smiles at the elderly man doing duty as front of house staff.  “Table in the name of Rodgers,” he says.  The man smiles back – straight past him at Beckett.

“Good evening, Detective Beckett,” he says enthusiastically.  “Nice to see you again.  I didn’t realise it was you.  Would you like your usual table?”

“Yes, thank you,” Beckett says, without anything like the maitre d’s enthusiasm.  The reason becomes clear in a short second.  Beckett’s usual table is discreetly veiled from the majority of the room.  This evening is getting better with every second that passes.  Castle forestalls the maitre d’, who’s clearly known Beckett since she was in bobby socks, to pull Beckett’s chair out for her.

“Very gentlemanly,” she snips at him, causing the maitre d’ to cast her a parentally disapproving look which is entirely wasted.  Fortunately he leaves the menus and departs.

“I’m a perfect gentleman,” Castle says smoothly.  “Or would you like to prove me wrong about that too?”

Beckett blushes from the roots of her hair down to her neckline and beyond.  She suspects that if she could see her toenails they’d be blushing too.  She counts to ten, very slowly.

“You’re all pink and pretty and flustered, Beckett,” Castle smirks.  “What could you possibly be thinking?  I think it might be naughty thoughts.”

Counting to ten becomes counting to one hundred.  Because… she is thinking naughty thoughts.  Thoughts in which Castle would not be a gentleman – and might or might not be gentle – and she _definitely_ wouldn’t be a lady.

She glares fixedly at the menu until her cheeks return to their normal shade.  It takes longer than she’d like, not least because she is intensely conscious of Castle’s presence.  It’s that damn aftershave wafting through the air.

“I know what you’re going to order.”  _Aaarghh._   He can’t possibly.

“You do not.”

Castle pulls a piece of paper out his pocket, scrawls on it illegibly – at least when Beckett’s trying to read upside down – folds it over and puts a finger on it to prevent it flipping open.  “Go ahead and order, and then you can see if I got it right.”

A handy waiter appears as soon as Castle flickers an eyelash.  That’s annoying, too.  This is _her_ favourite restaurant and she should be able to find a waiter.

“Chicken cacciatore, please,” Beckett says.  There’s no way Castle could have guessed that.  Her favourite takeout is Thai, and laksa has little in common with good Italian food.

“I’ll have penne al’arrabiata,” Castle follows.  “Would you like wine, Beckett?”

“Yes, please.”  Castle has a brief discussion with the waiter and a good white shortly appears.  Beckett can’t decide if drinking it is a really good plan – instant amnesia – or a really bad plan – lowering of inhibitions.  On balance, something to soften the edges of the evening seems the best idea.

A lot of wine seems like an even better plan when Castle opens the folded over paper and Beckett deciphers the scrawl into _chicken cacciatore_.  Spelt correctly.  She always has to think about the c’s.

Castle doesn’t say a word.  He simply smirks.  Beckett bites into one of the grissini with more force than is strictly warranted.  She is a woman of immense self-control and imperturbability.  Therefore she will not give way to her burning desire to scream loudly and throw things at Castle’s smug face.  Nor will she give way to the very unwanted and reluctant admiration that he does know her amazingly well… and if he knows these very well-concealed pieces, what else might he have worked out? 

She does not want to be impressed by Castle.  Even if she is.  He’s _good_ at crime.  He’s good company.  (At work.)  And his shatteringly, painfully stupid behaviour just before the summer notwithstanding, he is actually rather good at her.  Her coffee.  Her need to solve every case.  Her way of interrogating and thinking.   Her need for a little cheerfulness and optimism in her life.  And sometimes, late at night in her quiet, solitary bed, she thinks that he’d be rather good at something else.

Because both of them know that it blazes, but it might only be she who’s scared of being burned.

Dinner passes pleasantly, in fact.  The wine helps.  It even softens the intense annoyance that Lanie has clearly spilled her guts, followed by her liver and kidneys, to Castle about Beckett’s favourite restaurant, food and even dessert.  (She adores tiramisu.  It might be clichéd, but she does.  All that coffee liqueur…)  It’s not until she’s sipping the last of her coffee that she realises that the maitre d’ is regarding her fondly and looking upon Castle with considerable approval.  Paolo clearly thinks that this is a _date_.  No no no.  Not a date.  Not at all a date.  Even if he is _also_ , so it seems, good company out of work. 

Since it’s not a date, she expects to pay her share and is deeply offended when Castle won’t let her. 

“I always go Dutch, Castle,” she complains.

“Only because I let you.  Tonight I invited you and I’m paying.”

“It’s not a date, Castle.”

“I said that first.”  He makes a very plaintively pathetic face which tries to make a land-grab for the softer side of Beckett.  Since she rarely has one, it fails.  Unfortunately, she has had wine.

“Don’t you want a date with me, then?” falls out of her mouth.

“Why, Beckett,” oils Castle, “you’ve proven me wrong again.  I thought you didn’t want a date, but you did.”

Her mouth flaps wordlessly.  Castle takes full and unfair advantage of her speechless state to steer her out of the restaurant with a hand on her back while she’s still incapable of forming a single word; exchanges a happy smile with the maitre d’, who provides him with a look which indicates complete support of Castle; and orients them in the general direction of Beckett’s apartment.

It takes two blocks before Beckett manages any words at all.  Not coincidentally, that’s about how long it also takes her to notice that Castle still has an arm around her.

“What are you doing?”

“Well,” Castle drawls, “you seemed a bit upset that this wasn’t a date, so I thought I’d make it a bit more date-like.  Even though it isn’t.” 

His arm cuddles in a tad more closely, and he notes with some interest that even this very irritated Beckett seems to have forgotten how to maim his ears and/or pull away.  There is nothing stopping her doing either.  They continue to perambulate towards Beckett’s home: Castle perfectly contented with the evening, Beckett chewing on a lemon.  As far as he’s concerned, she can chew on a whole orchard’s worth of lemons as long as he gets to keep his arm around her.

He still has an arm around her when they get back to her building.  It’s amazing how neatly she fits into him.  It’s also amazing that he is not dead.

It’s even more amazing that he manages to escort her up to her apartment and, while he hasn’t exactly been invited in, he certainly hasn’t been shut out.  Hmm.  Maybe he should try the last act of any civilised date, in a moment or few. 

While he’s been thinking, Beckett has kicked her heels off, sunk four inches, and put the kettle on.  He’s not much interested in the last.  He’s very interested in the way she’s now just about the perfect height for tucking in.  He prowls quietly after her to the small kitchen area, rather than investigating the public areas of her apartment, and is thus practically on top of her when she turns round.

She jumps, squeaks, and covers it up with snark.

“What are you doing in here?”

“I thought you might need some help.”

“With what?”

“You appear to be making coffee.”  Beckett looks rather blankly at the counter, which contains a switched on kettle, French press with coffee already in it, creamer, and only needs mugs to be complete.

“Oh.  Would you like some?”  She never normally has to ask him.  She’d just assumed… Oh.

“I should be delighted to stay for coffee, Beckett.  Very appropriate.  Not too forward.”

“Forward?” she squawks.  Really, he should have taken her out for dinner months ago, if he’d known he’d discover this amusingly, adorably flusterable Beckett who really doesn’t have a clue about how to deal with him outside the precinct.  (In which she generally deals with him by chopping him off at the knees.)

“Pushy.  I’m so glad that you aren’t expecting anything.”  This is so much _fun_.  Discombobulating Beckett is the most fun he’s had – well, almost since he met her.  And he gets to do it all over again, next week, too.

“No…” she says, distractedly.  She almost sounds disappointed.  Just a little more….  A little more, and she’ll be ripe for denouement.  And the best thing will be that she’ll have got herself into it.  He isn’t exactly playing hard to get – if Beckett indicates in the slightest that she wants him got he’s not going to turn that down – but he’s certainly not letting her think that he’s interested in pushing the pace.  Even if his lips are itching to kiss her and his fingers are itching to tug that very appealing little bow open and find out what Beckett wears underneath.

“D’you want coffee or do you need to get home?”

“Oh,” he says, as if he needs to consider – he doesn’t – and glances at his watch as if checking, “coffee, please.”  Beckett stretches up – ooh, that’s pretty – and reaches for two mugs.  Shortly a tray bearing all the necessary components of good coffee arrives near the couch.  Pretending not to push the pace is one thing, but Castle is certainly not prepared to waste the potential opportunity arising from sharing coffee with Beckett late at night when _not_ on a case, and so he unobtrusively hesitates slightly until he’s sure where Beckett has planted herself and then plants himself sufficiently far away to be unthreatening and sufficiently close to be able to take advantage.

Beckett is confused.  She doesn’t like confusion.  She likes straight lines of enquiry, neat solutions, and an organised life.  Up till now, Castle has not been confusing.  He’s been very simple.  Sees her, hot for her, chases her.  Now he’s taking _Lanie_ to the ballet?  It’s definitely _not_ a date?  Not _sure_ if he’s got time for coffee?  Glad she’s not _expecting_ anything?  Oh.  Oh well.  Okay then.  She droops, for an instant. 

It is damn well not _okay then_.  Her spine straightens.  She is not going down without a fight.  Then it droops again.  If she’s got this wrong, she’ll embarrass both of them.  Then it half-straightens.  Maybe a hint would do.  One that can be safely ignored if unwanted.

Castle is pensively drinking his coffee and considering whether a small amount of encouragement might be a good plan, such as an arm around Beckett’s slim shoulders.  She’s worryingly quiet and turned inward, suddenly.  He wonders, with a sudden flash of concern, if he’s maybe overdone the not-botheredness.  Maybe a little hint would be helpful.  He doesn’t want her to think he’s _un_ interested.

He stretches to put his coffee down just as Beckett puts hers down.  As he sits back, he re-arranges his arms at the exact moment that Beckett shuffles a fraction closer and as a result ends up with rather more of an armful of Beckett than he’d expected.

It’s still all a perfectly civilised date.  Right up till Beckett looks up at him with huge, doubtful, hazel eyes and bites her lip nervously.  He really is not proof against that.  He just isn’t.

And then suddenly nothing is civilised at all.


	2. Witness evidence

It all went nova the instant he touched down on her full lips. 

He only meant to kiss her gently, a little encouragement, a cure for the doubt he’d seen in her eyes that sears his soul.  So he’d dipped his head and held her closer and kissed her closed-mouthed.  Simply to take her doubts away.  But her lips had been satin-soft under his and he’s wanted to kiss her for far too long and then her mouth opened just a little and he can resist anything at all except temptation.

As if that temptation hadn’t been bad enough she’d traced her tongue against the seam of his lips and _obviously_ he wasn’t going to turn that invitation down but he really hadn’t meant for it to turn into a full-scale battle for possession of the other’s mouth. 

Except it did.  Beckett had invaded the instant he’d given her the slightest chance and the feel of her mouth on his is so much better than he’d dreamed but then he’d simply stopped thinking and reacted.  She might have started it, but he is _definitely_ going to finish this.  She nips on his lip and her hands are in his hair but no matter how hard she tries she’s never going to be able to compete with his strength so he slips his palm round the base of her skull and re-angles her head and fights back till he’s taken possession of her mouth in return. 

He nibbles gently along her jaw and drops dirty little kisses under her ear and nips her earlobe.  That’s better.  She’s breathing harder and making tiny sexy noises and he’s going to turn her into a melted mess before they are done.   And then he’s going to do it again and again and he will _prove_ that she’s been wrong not to be with him before.  He delicately licks at a spot behind her ear and she wriggles against him and gasps, so he does that again before coming back to that sinfully seductive mouth, hot and wet and receptive.

And then she _cheats_.  He hadn’t even noticed that she’d undone his shirt until her hand is inside and scraping very lightly over his pecs and playing with his nipples and that lights him up like a firework and suddenly the tiny bow at her waist is undone and he really doesn’t care any more that he’d meant to unwrap her slowly and appreciate her (he hadn’t meant to unwrap her at all but he’s completely forgotten that) because he just has to strip her of that dress and be skin to skin.

Pulling the second little bow has had exactly the effect he’d hoped.  The whole dress falls apart in one go and leaves him with the astonishing sight of one Beckett in a very sexy red lace lingerie set and not one stitch more.  After that his brain has absolutely nothing else to do with what happens.  Castle, famously smooth and sophisticated, lover par excellence and never, ever fazed, completely loses his cool.  Beckett is hauled up, where he can press her hard into him and while ravaging and plundering her mouth, and then he pushes her down so that he can slide hands over her and cup her perfectly-fitting breasts in his palm.  She likes that.

She also likes it when he palms and then rolls, pinches gently and then replaces fingers with mouth.  Oh, yes, she likes it.  She arches up to give him free access to lick, suck and nip at the soft underside and then kiss better the small marks he’s leaving; to move over and match on the other side; and then to nibble his way back over her collarbones to her mouth and take it all over again.  His unsuspectedly primitive side is thoroughly pleased to note that she’s completely lax under his ministrations. 

“Proved you wrong,” he growls, in between hard, possessive kisses.

“Huh?”

“It’s you who had no idea.  I had plenty idea.”

“How about you – ohhh” – as he nips on the spot behind her ear – “stop talking and put – ooohhh – some of the ideas into practice?”

“Is that an invitation?”

“No, it’s an – ohhh, do that again – order.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to give orders, Detective.  But feel free to prove me wrong.”

That was a very big mistake.  He should never have said that to someone trained in unarmed combat.  He should also never have challenged Beckett.  All his size and strength are completely useless against wickedly fast hands and the fact that Castle is intensely ticklish.  He’s left squeaking and squawking and trying to evade and failing, and then he can’t catch his breath for long enough to catch his Beckett either.  She’s escaped his lap and his arms and this is _so_ not fair… oh.  _Oh oh oh._   _Ohmigod.  Oh fuck.  Ohmigod_.

Cool, collected, sardonic, reserved and formal Detective Beckett is kneeling on the floor, in a scarlet bra and panties that would not disgrace the La Perla catwalk (nor would she), with tousled sex hair and swollen lips and a sensually seductive smile on those same lips, a wicked look in her eyes and _oh oh oh_ _when_ did she open his pants and how did he _not notice_ her doing it?  She is very delicately playing with him: teasing the soft skin over hard weight and feathering her fingers – _ohhhh_ – and rubbing and circling and her nails are just scraping against him in a very provocative way.

“Like that, Castle?”

“Christ, Beckett,” is all he’s capable of.

“Answer me,” she commands.

“Ye-es.”  She does it some more.  He groans.

“Looks like you were wrong, Castle.”

“You’re – _Beckett!_ – not ordering me around – _fuck!_ ”

She raises an interrogative eyebrow.

“Really?”  She runs a nail from tip to root and back again.  “I think you’ll do anything I want you to.”  She licks her lips.  Castle groans again.  “Kiss me, Castle.”

He thinks about refusing for a scant second.  Then he wonders why he’s even let that idea into his head.  Then he leans forward and tips up her face and kisses her just as she demanded.

And then he employs equal swiftness to detach and trap her naughty hands without doing himself a critical injury and to pull her back up while he stands himself, hoists her up so he needn’t stop kissing her and crushes her into him.  Then he holds her very tightly just where he needs her – and from the heat radiating from her where she’s wrapped her legs around him that’s just where she needs him – and starts towards the bedroom, one hand pressed over her tight ass and one holding her head for his mouth.  Taking orders?  Not likely, Beckett. 

Beckett was just beginning to turn Castle into a hopeless, undone mess when he _cheated_ by employing size and strength to stop her.  _So_ not fair.  On the other hand she’s pressed tightly against some very interestingly active areas – and he was very enticingly large in her hands – and she is pretty certain that if she wiggles a little he’ll be very eager to do what she wants him to.  She wiggles.  It feels very, very nice.  So she wiggles some more.  This time it’s much more of a sensual, serpentine squirm.

“Stop that, Beckett.”

“Or?” she says mischievously.

“Or we’ll stop right here and you’ll find out what your bedroom wall feels like on your back.”

“Can’t you wait, Castle?”

“Feels like it’s you who can’t wait, Beckett.”  His hand slides over her rear and finds slick heat.  “Definitely,” he says over her indrawn breath, and strokes her some more.  The wall is an increasingly attractive option… if he hadn’t just made it through the bedroom door.   He teases a little more, for good measure, and drops Beckett on her neat bed.  It won’t be neat shortly…

First, though, he is going to admire.  Dark hair, all messed up and spread out over the lilac pillows; dark eyes, wide and invitingly come-hitherish; smooth cream skin, unmarred; full breasts not quite spilling over a lace bra; slim waist flaring into enticingly shapely hips and more scarlet lace; a tiny triangle and slice of silk covering soft damp skin; legs… legs… more legs, ending in deep red heels.  All spread out over a pale lilac comforter: pretty as a picture.  It’s not a picture that could be hung in public, that’s for sure.  _This_ picture screams scorching sexuality and hard hot nights.  How convenient.  He’s pretty keen on scorching sexuality and hard hot nights too.  Just as long as both involve Beckett being with him.

He smiles darkly down as he undoes the heels, and starts to consider how best to turn Beckett into a writhing mass of sheer lust.  She’ll be his, and there will be no more of this proving him wrong at all.  He’ll prove once and for all that they belong together.

And then she smiles, licks and parts her lips, stretches and ripples all the way from head to now-bare toes and follows up that method of leaving him utterly bereft of brain and breath by sliding her own hands down over her breasts to her hips and tucking her thumbs into each side of her panties in an attitude redolent of _if-you-won’t-I-will_ which is just not going to happen.  If there is any removing of Beckett’s underwear to be done – and there will be – then _he_ is going to do it.  And he’s going to turn her to a puddle while he does.

“No!” his frazzled hindbrain shoves out his mouth.   “Hands off.”  Beckett smirks, and doesn’t move her hands away at all.  Castle’s primitive instincts get tired of waiting for the rest of him to catch up to the game and move him all by themselves.  He slams down on the bed and grabs Beckett’s hands, slaps them above her head and holds them in one of his to keep them there – there’s a remarkable lack of argument, which he might have noticed if his brain hadn’t ceded all control to his body – and proceeds to use the other hand to play with the fabric of her bra, slipping it over her taut nipples and using the soft friction to wind her up and up and up till she’s moaning.  That’s better.  If she’s going to wind him up, he’s going to do the same to her.

Beckett has achieved exactly what she wanted.  Castle mindless with desire and totally incapable of thought.  Any tiny fragments of doubt had evaporated at the point he undid both bows.  He’d just been messing with her.   Rather more successfully than she’d have liked.  Still, if he hadn’t been she wouldn’t be here.  And _here_ is very pleasurable.  _Very_ pleasurable.  And then he grabs her hands and starts playing with her bra and thinking seems far too much effort when she can simply enjoy.  So she does.  He’s really very, very good at this.

Her bra seems to have disappeared.  That’s okay.  As long as it’s still in one piece – _oohhh_ does it really matter if he’s doing _that_ with his mouth?  He nibbles round about her nipple and she moans and pushes against his mouth for more.

“You like that, Beckett.”  She tugs to try to free herself.  She wants to play.  She hadn’t finished, earlier.  He stopped her.  It wasn’t fair.  Tugging doesn’t seem to be achieving much.  Hmmm.  Castle had turned out to be terribly, terribly ticklish.  Beckett is terribly, terribly flexible.  And if it doesn’t work, then at least he’ll be in a very good place to arch up and rub against.  She wriggles in a way that has at least as much – _ooohhh yes do that again_ – to do with the wicked abilities of his mouth as with her nefarious plan, squirms happily into a better alignment – _ohhhh yes_ – and bends her knee in such a way as to allow her toes to hit the dip between Castle’s hip and midriff which she already knows is unbelievably ticklish.

He squeals.  Positively shrieks.  It’s the work of an instant (and _years_ of drills) to flip him on to his back, whip his pants off, and divest him of his boxers.  And then she starts to get her revenge.  She’s never backed away from a challenge in her life and she’s not going to get turned into mush without a whimper.  (Well, there probably would be whimpers.  But not many.  Other noises, now…)  On the other hand _he_ deserves to be made to whimper.  And to make other noises…  She starts with a sharp nip on his collarbone, just to point the moral that _she’s_ on top now, and then proceeds to slide over him.  She has neither the size nor strength to keep his arms out the way, but in another minute he won’t have enough brain left to realise that.  She not only likes doing this, but she’s very, very good at it.

Beckett is draped over his entirely naked body and is very unfairly not naked herself.  He would do something about it, but his arms don’t seem to be connected to his brain any more.  He thinks that what she’s doing round about the level of his nipples – _oh Christ_ – has snapped some vital connection.  Then she slides wet silk against him and he stops thinking at all because all he can do is feel heat and moisture against his own hard weight but there’s fabric in his way and… and his primitive brain gets fed up of all this civilisation and ditches it again.  The panties get abruptly ditched, too.  Primitive Castle ignores Civilised Castle’s upset that he didn’t get to peel them off slowly.  Primitive Castle is too busy trying not to make primitive noises of complete incoherence and haul Beckett back up so that he can simply possess her.  She is going in the wrong direction…

Or not.  _Ohfuck.  Ohmigod.  Ohfuck._ Her mouth her mouth her mouth oh fuck.  Her sliding against him had been almost too much.  Her mouth round him and her hands and _ohhhh_ her tongue and teeth and fingers and _ohhhhhh Beckett_ and his hands are in her hair but he doesn’t know if it’s to hold her there or pull her away and then it really doesn’t matter because she twists her tongue and flicks her fingers and he’s gone.

When he’s stopped seeing stars he also realises that he’s not the only one who’s gone.  Beckett is missing.  Well, not touching him.  No-one’s touching him.  He sits up and looks around and spots her lying on the other side of the bed.  Smirking.  Okay then, Beckett.  She may have taken round one, but this is a series not a one-off.

“What are you doing all the way over there?”

“Thought you’d turned over and gone to sleep,” Beckett says lightly.

“Nope.  I’ll certainly turn over” – he flips over and pins her under him – “but I’ve no intention of going to sleep.  You can go to sleep if you want to.”  He leans up on an elbow and smirks down.  “When I’m done with you you’ll be exhausted.”

“Little overconfident there, Castle.  You get… distracted… so easily.”  The smirk widens.

“That what you think?  We’ll see about distraction.”  He pulls her closer to the centre of the bed and examines her with focused intent.  “I don’t think it’ll take much to distract you at all.”  He dances his fingers down the centre of her ribcage and over her flat stomach, stopping a little above where he might have.

“Pretty,” he says happily.

“Pretty?”  Is that the best he can do?

“Very pretty.”  Hmmph.  He’s spent months with his tongue metaphorically hanging out when her clothes are _on_ and now they’re off the best he can do is _pretty_? 

Castle looks even more happily at Beckett’s slightly sulky pout.  Of course she’s not just pretty.  She’s absolutely stunning.  But the pout is worth it.   He leans down and kisses it.  Then he continues on down over her throat, round under her ear because when he does that the way she wriggles and makes little sexy noises is just fabulous, then down over her collarbone and nips in revenge for the mark that’s already sure to be blooming on him.  His ‘n’ hers lovebites.  How romantic.

When he starts to pay some proper attention to her breasts – which are, he is now noticing, rather fuller than he would have realised from her terribly formal button downs – little sexy noises start to move into moans.  This time she is going to be left completely incapable of thought and conscious movement.  He’s just as talented with his mouth as she is, and this time she won’t be able to prove him wrong.

The soft traces of her perfume tantalise his nose, and it occurs to him that she knows he likes that scent.   He kisses over her stomach and swirls around her navel.  She wriggles, and he holds her still to play some more until she’s squirming in his grip and making quite a number of noises.  She’s stopped with the orders, too.  The few words that are intelligible sound much more like requests.  In another minute or two, they’ll be pleas.  If she can speak at all.  His mouth moves lower and sure enough she’s enjoying that.  Ohhh yes.  He parts her magnificent legs and strokes the inner face of her thighs delicately.

“You seem to be distracted, Beckett.”

“From what?  I’m still – _oh god do that again_ – thinking of Manh – _oh god_ – attan.”  She can still snark?  Oh, she is going to regret that.  He traces a finger along the crease of her thigh, and she twists.

“Manhattan, hmm?”  His finger eases inward, over soaked soft folds and curls, strokes and slides and flicks inward _ohh she’s tight_ and out again and it needs some force to hold her where she needs to stay, under his hard hands and soft fingertips, while he simply stays stroking her as he takes her higher and higher.  “How’s Manhattan now?”

“Uh?”  That’s better.  Manhattan?  No way. The only thing she’ll be thinking of is him.  He strokes more forcefully and she bucks under him and that is _not_ Manhattan she’s calling for.  She’s looking for a very different form of high-rise.  First, however, she’s not just going to forget Manhattan, she’s going to forget her own name.

He adopts a comfortable posture and replaces wickedly talented fingers with wickedly talented mouth.  He’s intending to turn her inside out and upside down. 

She’s so sensitised that she’s screaming as soon as he places lips on her and teases by barely touching.  She curves up into him and demands more with menaces, which he’s only too happy to give.  She tastes ambrosial, and he’s instantly addicted.  He’s more addicted to her frantic pleading and begging for more, harder, deeper _please Castle don’t stop more now!_ and the feel of her shattering into orgasm because of him.  He’s going to make that happen again.  Very, very soon.  Round two, to Castle.  He slithers up the bed and cuddles her in.  No way is Beckett getting the chance to wiggle away like she did the previous time.

His arms around her, locking her into the cage of his big body, are the only thing that stops her wiggling away.  She certainly tries – or at least tries to turn to face him.  Not gonna happen, Beckett.  For the next stage he wants her where he can play without let or hindrance.

“Proved you wrong, Beckett.”

“Uh?  What?”

“I don’t think that was Manhattan you were thinking about.”  Beckett turns her head a rather limited amount and produces a sleepy, sexy pout that still manages to convey sulkiness.  “You seemed pretty distracted to me.”  His hand roams downward.  “I like distracting you.”  And further down.  “You liked being distracted.”  And slips back between her legs.  “Let’s just concentrate on distraction for a while.”

It’s a very short while.  Having come once, Beckett is easily worked up and over again, and while Castle has plans for his own satisfaction, he finds himself perfectly content to postpone them for that same short while in favour of proving that he’s perfectly right for Beckett. 

Helpfully, she seems to feel the same, sliding slickly against him in a very insinuating manner which insinuates him right into her.  It’s amazing.  Perfect.  She arches to take him deeper and he thrusts to take her higher and they find a rhythm almost immediately and _oh_ she’s his, she has to be his.  Which seems to be just fine because that sounds very like _mine_ from her until it turns into _ohhhh Castle!_   at exactly the time he’s groaning out _ohhhh Beckett!_   And now she’s a soft, lax, beautiful bundle below him and once she’s opened her eyes again he’s going to show her that this all means that they fit as well together in this as they do in everything else.

Instead of opening her eyes, she – what? – snuggles in against him and drapes an arm round his chest.  Beckett?  Cuddlesome?  _Beckett_?  The Moon is clearly made of green cheese.  On the other hand he’ll eat an entire Moon’s worth of green cheese if Beckett wants to be cuddly with him after – and during – spectacular sex.  He cuddles her in return, and pets her lovingly.

Oh.  Ohmigod.  Ohmigod.  _Lovingly_?  Ohmigod.

Ohmigod _yes_!  Of course.  Lovingly.  It might take a time for Beckett to realise – it’s taken her considerable time to come round to this first step – but she will.  He can’t put a single fingertip on why he’s so sure, but he is.  Deep down to his bones.

If this is the Game of Life, he’s – no, they’ve – just won.  He cuddles in closer, takes due note of the answering curl into him, and falls blissfully into sleep.

Beckett has never felt so good, or so content with where she finds herself.  She snuggles as close as she can manage, and drops a possessive arm over her companion.  He retaliates by cuddling her in further, which puts her in the perfect position to embrace him lovingly.

What?  Oh my god.  Oh my god.  _Lovingly_? Oh my god.

Oh.  Yes.  Of course.  Perfectly logical.  He’s good at her, and good for her.  Why’d she ever bother fighting it?  He might take a little time to realise, but she’s sure he’ll get there eventually.  She drops happily into sleep.

When they wake, spooned together in an affectionate embrace: Castle’s arms round Beckett and her hands wrapped over his, neither of them actually mention their individual realisations.  Beckett is normal-service snarky, and Castle retaliatorily smug.  The only slight difference is that both of them have acquired a possessive tone.  Well, and they are naked in bed together.  Conversation is brief.

“I think that I’ll be seeing a lot more of you, Beckett.”

“We’re going to the ballet next week, aren’t we?  You’ll certainly see me then.”

“I think you’ll want to see me before that,” Castle purrs, looming up over her and trailing a hand through her already-damp core.

“Really?  I think you’ll want to see me first,”  Beckett ripostes, finding hard evidence to support that view.

“Come here, Beckett.”  He pulls her over on top of him and slides home.  “Prove us both right.”


End file.
